hello blog. i guess it’s been about a year since i wrote here—and Lord knows it might be another year before i write again—i owe you many apologies but i’ve got to get down to business because i’ve some unburdening to do. it’s mostly about boys, of course. it’ll be quick and dirty and not at all elegant.
tonight is the first night in weeks, really, where i haven’t had something to distract myself from myself. i could have something—some potentially pleasant social distractions—but honest to God i have been with a different man every night for the past four nights and i really do not want to make it five. so: no booze, no bars, no music, no, no, no. and no socializing of any kind! there will be only cats and chores.
i really did not want to sleep with four different men in four days—i was pretty disturbed already yesterday morning, googling up things like ‘nymphomania’ and ‘sexual compulsivity scale’—in a bit of a panicky way—though you know what, i think i’m just fine. i just get lonely like we all do. and i happen to work in a public place where men can come in and sit and talk to me, they don’t have to ask for an invitation. (i knew all them beforehand—none of these were new acquaintances. they know where i work, etc.) two of them i’d slept with before—one of those while setting my previous record of three men in one weekend—seems like a meager achievement now! he was #4 in the series and by far the lowest. i forget if i gave him a name when i wrote about him before. and i’m not sure if he merits one. #4 will work. a number suits him better than a name. we have sordidly hooked up a bunch of times throughout the past year. it has always been relatively joyless and left me feeling relatively used and disgraceful. why did i sleep with him last night when i was already sick of venery? well, to set a horrible record with myself, obviously. he walked into the bar and i couldn’t believe it, you know. three men in three nights without really any planning on my part—i had to go for four.
though i’ve calmed down a bit over the past year, the novelty of sex still hasn’t worn off. even in the most sordid unloving coupling—when i think, ‘i should really feel used right now’—even when i feel used—part of me also thinks (or shouts) ‘fuck you, universe! literally! i am not broken!’ and i’m all triumphant. it’s a complicated little set of feelings, let me tell you. and i say to myself, ‘that’s all right. no rules really apply to you. has anybody even had a sexual history like yours, ever? maybe. maybe like 10 people. you get to feel however—there’s no precedent.’
i’m afraid i’m falling in love with #1 in the series. (he is the only one of the four that i actually wanted to sleep with.) i wonder when/if/how i should tell him about my odd history. i’m assuming we’re going to be together for a while, you see that? that wild optimism? it’s unlike me, it makes me feel foolish, but optimism is no crime. and we’ve been flirting for months—gently, though—over the bar. finally we went out about two weeks ago and it was an unexpectedly incredible evening. (i thought it would be pleasant and all—a pleasant distraction!—i did not for once imagine it could be incredible.) the man is wonderful. literate, intelligent, entertaining, handsome, witty, warm, sweet. a payer of grand compliments. a man who makes an effort to romance. A FELLOW LOVER OF AUSTERE BRITISH FOLK MUSIC—AND WHAT ARE THE ODDS OF FINDING A FELLOW LIKE THAT LET’S SKIP THIS DATING BUSINESS AND JUST GET MARRIED IMMEDIATELY. he’s also a great lover, as it turns out. and (you know i have to mention this) he’s well-endowed (thank God). but he’s in ohio for a long weekend so what good does all that do me. i keep turning over the sweet things he said in my mind—while that stupid organ desperately searches for flaws and invents reasons why i’ll never see him again. i’m going to call this one Tread-Lightly.
#2 i’m going to call Dolor. i thought i was falling in love with him for a painful week or so before i went out with Tread-Lightly. i’m not entirely sure why—he’s a self-hating alcoholic atheist. and he mumbles. he has a houseful of extreme renovation projects—i mean it looks like postwar Europe or something—and ‘gives the talks at the planetarium.’* his name is also the male version of my own name and that’s damn attractive (in a creepy narcissistic way), isn’t it. (papageno! papagena!) i really can’t lavish any fine adjectives upon him. and he is definitely not a great lover. and God was definitely not generous with him. as soon as Tread-Lightly became a possibility and i started ignoring Dolor—(he gave me the ‘let’s just be friends’ and i was like ‘okay whatever’)—he started sniffing around again. like a bad cat.
#3 was a mistake and no way around it. (sometimes we feel guilty because we are guilty.) he’s a customer. one of the most loyal and best! i went out for drinks with him after i got off work—never hung out with him before—some of his friends were supposed to come along but they went home early—we really did get drunker than we intended. and then the inevitable. i really, really hope our relationship doesn’t get awkard and nothing goes awry. i’m going to call him Anderson. (i’m out of allegory). i feel compelled to write him some sort of message without having a clear idea what it is i’d like to say. (well, i guess i do know what it is: ‘i hope our relationship doesn’t get awkward and nothing goes awry.’)
well. /confession. now i should go do laundry, clean out my refrigerator, do something to drive away some of life’s chaos. when all i want to do is sit around and think about the horrible possibility of love…or go out, get lost in pointless conversations, and make myself forget about it.
* for some reason reminds me of ‘he do the police in different voices.’ maybe just because it’s an equally mysterious phrase.